


the long week-end

by orphan_account



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Breakfast in Bed, Characters Watching Disney Movies, Concerned Tom, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Dinner and the Theater, F/M, Marriage Proposal, More Pampering, More Sex, Morning Sex, Pampering, Picnic in the park, Promises, Sharing a Bath, Shower Sex, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	1. friday

You walk slowly to your flat from the bus stop, your feet dragging. Above you, the sky threatens rain, but you are past the point of caring. You’re so tired — so utterly discouraged and ready to give up — that you could easily sleep for a hundred years, if only your problems would have vanished by the time you awoke.

Anything and everything that could go wrong today did. First, your bus was late, subsequently making you late to work, as well. Your boss, not typically a morning person and already irritable, tore you to shreds for that. 

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he didn’t like the project you’d been working on for the past three weeks, a project into which you’d poured your heart and soul to the point of ignoring your boyfriend, who — bless him — understood how important this was and left you to work in peace. 

On top of all that, your only friend in the office called in sick, leaving you to sit by yourself at lunch. You haven’t felt so alone since high school, when everyone had their own little group and you were left on the outside looking in.

Letting yourself into the flat, you’re tempted to slam the door shut and scream out all your frustrations. But you know that won’t help matters, so instead you carefully hang up your hat, scarf, and coat, and set your keys on the hallway table. Now, though, you’re at a loss as to what to do next. You’ve never been the best at being alone, and it doesn’t sound like Tom is in at the moment.

When you first left for college, you made up your mind that while you might _want_ someone, that wasn’t the same as actually _needing_ someone. You refused to open your heart to another guy, not after the last one, your best friend — _ex_ -best friend, you remind yourself bitterly — so utterly and completely destroyed your faith in the male species. But then you met Tom, and he somehow wormed his way into your heart with his charming smile and dashing good looks and above-average intelligence. You fell hard and fast for Tom, and you don’t regret a single thing.

Now you can’t imagine life without Tom. You need him like you need air to breathe, like you once needed your former best friend. And right now, what you need more than anything is for Tom to be _here_ , to wrap you in his arms and just hold you, stroking your hair and kissing your forehead, whispering sweet nothings in your ear and promising you that tomorrow is another day and things will look brighter then.

But Tom isn’t here, and so you slide down the wall until you’re curled up in a ball on the cold hardwood floor, your arms wrapped around your ankles and your head buried between your knees. You rock back and forth, but no tears come. You’re too drained, too exhausted to cry anymore. Besides, you think, you already spent all your tears in the girls’ washroom at lunch. Listing to the side, you offer no protest as gravity pulls you down to the ground.

You lie there for what seems like hours, but in reality is less than a few minutes, when you hear footsteps on the stairs. Your shoulders tense and the rest of your body seems to shut down, your arms and legs locking into place. It appears that Tom _is_ home, after all. 

You never wanted him to see you like this — so weak, so vulnerable. He knew that you suffered from depression, of course — two people couldn’t live together for so many months and not discover each other’s little quirks, as well as their deepest, darkest secrets — but he’d never seen you quite this bad before. There’s nothing for it, though. It’s not like there’s a switch that you can flip on and off that regulates your depression.

You hear his sharp intake of breath as he stops at the foot of the stairs and takes stock of the situation, seeing you properly for the first time since that morning.

“Darling,” he exclaims, rushing forward and falling to his knees at your side. “Are you alright? What’s happened? Is something wrong?”

But you’re too overcome to respond. All you can do is shake your head and avoid his eyes, too ashamed at him seeing you like this. And it’s only now — now that he’s here, to be your rock, your confidant, your comforter — that the tears come and you let yourself go, although you make a valiant effort at holding in your tears, only releasing little gasps or whimpers as the silent sobs wrack your body.

There’s no fooling Tom, of course. He scoops you into his arms as though you weigh nothing and carries you up the stairs to your bedroom, tenderly laying you down on the bed and climbing onto the mattress to spoon you from behind.

You take comfort in the feel of his arm wrapped around your waist — like a steel band, you think, protecting me from all possible harm — and respond by gripping him tightly to the point where he’s probably going to be bruised come morning. But he makes no protest, glad to offer you what comfort he can or that you’re willing to accept.

Crying is better than screaming, you think idly to yourself some minutes later as the tears continue to pour from your eyes and run down the tip of your nose. Finally, though, the tears slow until your breath is only hitching as you continue to suck in air. Tom, sensing that the end is near, takes this as his cue to shift your body so that you’re now facing each other. He traces your cheek with just the tips of his long dexterous fingers, wiping away the moisture that has gathered. His touch is soothing and cool, and on reflex you turn your head to the side so as to kiss his palm. His grip on you tightens momentarily, recognizing the reverence in your action that still, even now, makes him uncomfortable.

Tom is surprisingly shy and, on occasion, insecure, believing himself unworthy of my devotion and even my love. He wonders what he ever did to deserve me, when it is I, unworthy wretch that I am, that is undeserving of his attention. But he doesn’t like me to think or talk that way. It only fuels my depression, he says, and I guess he has a point. It’s just, when you go your whole life without a single guy casting a glance your way, and then a famous and attractive man like Tom Hiddleston singles you out from the crowd, it’s hard to ignore what guys’ silence have said about you in the past. Tom is very patient with me, though, for which I’m exceedingly grateful.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispers, breaking the stillness of my reverie.

“I guess,” I reply, shrugging as best I can when I’m lying on my side. “It was just. . . a really rough day. I was late to work; my boss didn’t like my project; and my only friend at the office was out sick. I just feel kinda crappy, and it didn’t help that I’ve spent the past few weeks putting so much effort into a project that ultimately got rejected. I’ve missed you, and I guess today was just the culmination of all that.”

Tom tugs me closer so that my head is resting over his chest; the steady beat of his heart soothes me like nothing else will, and he knows this.

I continue speaking against his chest, finding it easier to bare my soul to him if I’m not looking directly into his cerulean-blue eyes. “It’s just. . . when I get one thing wrong, I feel like I’m a failure at everything else. I had this problem in college, too, you know. I would get behind in one class, and then the rest just seemed to follow, all toppling like dominos. I would feel so lost and overwhelmed. I just wanted a hug, but my best friend wasn’t there to give me one, and that just made me feel all the lonelier.”

I cry a little more at the loss of who I believe to be my first love, but my melancholy soon passes. Tom does more to chase away the demons than my medication ever could. We fall into silence, then, and it’s comfortable. I’m at peace.

“I understand why you’ve had to be distant these past few weeks,” Tom says at last, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair just as I had imagined while walking home. “Your job is your livelihood, your way of supporting yourself. I respect that about you: that you aren’t willing to live off of what I make alone. And so I understood why this project has had to come first lately. But, for the record, I’ve missed you, too. And look at the bright side — it’s Friday, so even though you may have had a crappy day _today_ , now you can spend the rest of the weekend with me and make up for lost time.”

I smile in spite of myself, and from the way my mouth is pressed against Tom’s collarbone, I know he can feel it.

“We can do whatever you want,” he continues, cajoling me (not that I need much persuasion). “We can sleep late, have breakfast in bed, watch movies, or go for a walk. Anything you want, and I’ll do my best to provide. You wish is, as always, my command.”

Finally, I crane my head around to look Tom square in the face. In his eyes, I see none of the pity that others have most likely felt when they realize how truly damaged I am. Instead, I see only compassion, acceptance, and love. So much love, and all mine for the taking. My smile grows, as does Tom’s in response.

“Bathroom?” is all I say.

As if reading my mind, Tom gathers me into his arms once again and carries me down the hall, setting me on the toilet seat and plugging up the bathtub before starting to run the water. He makes sure that the temperature is just right before quickly shedding his clothes. He then turns his attention to me, taking his time to undress me just as he would a child. I don’t mind. I rather like being pampered after one of my ‘episodes.’ It makes me feel treasured, special.

Once I’m naked, Tom picks me up and sets me gently down into the tub. I’m unable to restrain a moan as the warm water laps over my thighs and belly. Tom chuckles before stepping in as well and slotting into place behind me. That’s what I like about us — me and Tom, I mean. We fit together, like the pieces of a puzzle, as cliché as that sounds. I sigh in contentment and lean further back against his chest, his arms coming to rest on my stomach, on top of the rolls of fat that I’m usually self-conscious about. But when I’m with Tom, I feel like a princess.

“This is nice,” I murmur drowsily as I feel all the tension draining from my body.

Tom doesn’t say anything, merely kisses the side of my neck in such a way as to send shivers down my spine. But this isn’t about sex, nor will it likely end in our coupling. No, this is about taking pleasure in each other’s presence, both spiritually and physically. No more, no less.

The water is lukewarm when Tom finally pulls the plug out and lets the tub drain. He quickly hops out, wrapping a towel around his waist and then holding out one for me as well. He’s gentle as he towels me dry, peppering kisses up and down every inch of bare skin. My mind and body are equally sated by the time he’s finished, and he hurriedly attends to his own needs before sweeping me into his arms and carrying me back into our bedroom, bridal-style.

Helping me into a pair of his most comfy sweatpants and an old jogging t-shirt that I’ve since claimed, he tucks me into bed before joining me under the covers. Turning out the light, he just holds me, exactly as I want. For so long, I slept alone. When Tom and I first got together, I had trouble adjusting to sharing my bed with another. But now I find that I can’t sleep without him.

Just as on that first night several months (almost half a year) previous, the gentle puffs of Tom’s breath on my neck lulls me to sleep. Soon, I’m drifting between wakefulness and the unconsciousness of sleep. The last thing I’m aware of is Tom kissing the back of my neck, just behind my earlobe, and whispering, “Pleasant dreams, darling.”


	2. saturday

When I wake in the morning, I’m refreshed. I feel alive as I never do unless I’m in Tom’s arms. I feel him shifting restlessly, though, and so I feign sleep, knowing that he’ll wish to spoil me rotten, at least for today (not that he doesn’t always), after my meltdown last night.

Feigning sleep is surprisingly easy to do, and I find myself dozing, only half aware of my surroundings as Tom rises from the bed and tip-toes out of our room and downstairs to the kitchen, where he will proceed to make pancakes topped with fruit, our standard weekend fare and a personal favorite of mine.

He returns some thirty minutes later with a breakfast tray balanced in his arms. He’s even included a vase that holds a single rose. I sit up in bed and pat my lap, gesturing for him to set the tray down. “I hope you’re planning to join me,” I murmur distractedly as I take in the wonderful smells emanating from the plate before me.

“Of course,” he says, jovially, bending down to kiss my upturned lips. “I’ll be right back.”

He hurries downstairs again and soon returns with a second tray. He climbs back onto the bed and we sit across from each other as we dig into the food Tom has so thoughtfully prepared, moaning appreciatively as the savory mixture of pancakes, syrup, and fresh fruit melts on our tongues.

Tom leans across his own tray and picks up a raspberry, holding it up for me to take. As the fruit slides into my mouth, I teasingly lick at Tom’s finger, sucking lightly in the way that never fails to drive him crazy. I see his eyes darken with lust as his eyes rove my body and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Inside my head, I’m cackling like a madwoman, drunk on my power.

Deciding to return the favor, I hold up a strawberry. I’ve forgotten, though, that turnabout’s fair play: Tom wraps his lips around the berry and _sucks_ , and I’m instantly reminded of where I’d rather have his lips and tongue. Throwing caution to the wind, I set aside my tray and crawl towards Tom on my hands and knees until I’m sitting in his lap, my arms wrapped around his neck and my forehead resting against his so that we’re left staring into each other’s eyes.

“Like something you see, darling?” he purrs in my ear.

“You know I do,” I whisper back. “Are you going to make all my dreams come true?”

“I aim to please,” he replies, even as he suddenly tips forward so that we’re falling. But it’s all right because I’m in his arms and I know that he’d never hurt me. I land first, and Tom immediately shifts his weight so that he’s balanced evenly on both arms instead of crushing me.

After that, it’s all teeth and lips and tongue, and our clothes hastily discarded in a pile on the floor, ripped from our very backs. I’m completely recovered from last night, and I let Tom know this with every thrust of my hips and the way I moan his name as I climax. Apparently, all I needed was a good night’s sleep to provide me with a fresh outlook, followed by an after-breakfast shag.

As we lie there together in the aftermath, our breaths slowing and the sweat cooling on our sated bodies, I rest my head on top of Tom’s chest, directly over his heart. The soothing beat of his life’s blood pumping through his body lulls me to sleep, and I doze contentedly for some minutes. All the while, Tom never moves, his fingers alternately combing through my hair and tracing random patterns on my bare skin.

When I eventually wake, I sit up to rub the sleep from my eyes and then tug on Tom’s hand, leading him to the bathroom where we proceed to have fantastic shower sex before studiously scrubbing each other’s bodies with the loofah sponge. We take turns drying each other off before donning our comfiest sweatpants and pull-overs and settling in front of the telly. By unspoken agreement, Tom relinquishes the remote-control to me and I cue up _The Little Mermaid_ , one of my favorite Disney films.

We sing along to all the songs, and Tom even serenades me with _Kiss the Girl_ , rewarding me with a kiss at the end. We spend the rest of the afternoon in this manner, watching Disney movie after Disney movie and pausing only long enough to order take-away, then again to answer the door when our delivery arrives.

All in all, it’s the perfect day — one of my better ones, to be sure; not a single negative thought — and I tell Tom this as we get ready for bed.

“Thank you, Tom,” I whisper against his neck as I lie pleasantly enfolded in his embrace. “Today was perfect, and I owe it all to you.”

“Nonsense, darling,” he scoffs, as always, discounting the effect he has on me (he acts the same with his fans, always so surprised by the attention he receives). “You’d be fine, even without me. I just help you to channel that remarkable inner strength of yours.”

“Well, thank you, just the same. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispers into my hair and plants a kiss on the crown of my head. “Sleep well, darling.”

I mumble something unintelligible and settle down to sleep, unaware of Tom’s eyes on me or the fond smile tugging at his lips that is always present whenever he’s around me. I sleep on and dream only pleasant things: of me and Tom and of the life we’ve built together, the life we hope to have together in the future. And when I wake, perhaps reality will continue to mirror my fantasies.


	3. sunday

Tom isn’t in bed when I wake up the next morning. My internal panic is calmed, however, when I feel that the sheets on Tom’s side are still warm. So he can’t have been gone for too long, I reason. The sound of the shower running reaches my ears, then, and I further relax against the pillows, tucking the blankets up around my neck so that I’m cocooned in their warmth until Tom can return.

As I slowly reach full consciousness, I can make out the sound of Tom singing in the shower:

> “ _And I can't believe, that I'm your man_  
>  _And I get to kiss you, baby, just because I can_  
>  _Whatever comes our way, we'll see it through_  
>  _And you know that's what our love can do_.”

God, I love this man. Even when we’re not in the same room he manages to show how much he loves me and how much worth he places on my love for him. I spent years thinking that I would wind up a spinster, and I’d accepted that fate. I would work for as long as I could, and then I would retire to the country where I’d adopt a bunch of animals and live out the rest of my life with them. Who needs humans when there are countless animals to love and who offer you their unconditional love in return?

While I still feel this way to an extent — given the choice between co-existing with the majority of mankind and animals, I will always choose animals over humans — Tom has become the exception to my every rule. And I love him for it.

I hear the water turn off and prop myself up against the headboard, the sheets pooling around my waist so that the first thing Tom will see is the shirt I put on before going to bed last night: it’s one of his, that I’ve since claimed as my own, from his days on the set of _Thor_ and _The Avengers_.

Tom enters the bedroom, then, bare-chested with only a towel perched dangerously-low on his hips. I’m left speechless, my throat suddenly parched at the sight of his near-naked body. Although I’m not with Tom for his body alone, which is certainly fit and well-toned, it’s undeniable that he has major sex appeal — and not just to me, but to his army of fangirls, as well. I don’t blame them for fantasizing about my boyfriend, but that’s the thing: he’s _mine_. For whatever reason, he picked me out of all the other young girls and women he could be dating, and he turned my world — not to mention, my outlook on life — upside-down.

“So, I was thinking, darling,” he says, seemingly unaware of the affect his walking around practically naked is having on me. “How would you like to play the tourist today and go on a tour of London?”

I drag my eyes up to his face, and from the knowing gleam to be found there, he’s well-aware of where my thoughts were and are headed, and that if he doesn’t put some clothes on soon all his plans will be out the window because I will chain him to this bed if I have to and ravish him until we’re both sated.

“That sounds lovely, Tom,” I manage to rasp, before beating a hasty retreat to privacy of the still-steaming bathroom, his laughter following me. An initial burst of cold water does much to cool my flushed cheeks, as well as to fully wake me up. I then proceed to take a ridiculously long and luxuriously warm shower, before deciding to turn the tables on Tom and see how he likes it when I flaunt my body and leave little to the imagination.

“You know, Tom,” I say as I walk out of the bathroom, toweling my hair dry in the meantime, “It should be illegal for you to walk around in so little clothing. I’m liable to forget that I have a life outside of you, and that I have to actually leave the bedroom on occasion.”

“And what about what you’re doing to me, woman?” he growls playfully at me, advancing slowly like a predator stalking its prey.

“Tom,” I say warningly, holding out my arms in a gesture of surrender, or perhaps a plea for mercy. I get neither. Instead, Tom pounces, pinning my arms to my side and swinging me around in a circle, tickling me all the while. “Tom!” I shriek, half-heartedly fighting back.

By this time, my towel has fallen to the floor, leaving me bared to Tom’s gaze. While in the early months of our relationship I would have covered up and flushed red in embarrassment, I now meet his eyes unflinchingly. He picks me up, his hands cupping my ass and encouraging me to wind my legs about his waist, and kisses me, long and slow. When we break for air, his forehead remains pressed against mine.

“You might have had the right idea, luv,” he whispers. “If you don’t get some clothes on soon, I’m not going to be able to resist throwing you down on that bed and making love to you until my name is the only word on your lips.”

“Oh, Tom,” I laugh, resting a hand on his own bare chest. “You do know how to tempt a girl.”

“Go on,” he says, setting me on my feet once more. “Get dressed and I’ll treat you to breakfast, and all the hot spots of London, and maybe even a picnic in the park.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, offering him a mock salute before turning around and bending over to search for something suitable to wear.

With a playful slap to my bare ass, and a cheeky wink in response when I look over my shoulder at him, Tom turns to the task of getting dressed himself. In short order, we’re ready and out walking the streets of London.

Tom leads me to a charming café, where we enjoy a full English breakfast — a rare treat — that’s passed in pleasurable conversation. Next, we take a cab to the London Eye, then Buckingham Palace, followed by the Natural History Museum. By now, it is early afternoon, and we’re both starving. Tom directs our cab driver to Hyde Park, where he orders us sandwiches from a food vendor and leads me through the park’s many twists and turns until he’s found the perfect secluded spot. We’ve been lucky so far today, in that Tom hasn’t been recognized, but we’d rather not take any chances during what’s meant to be a private lunch.

Once our bellies are full, with my head resting in Tom’s lap, Tom pulls out a well-worn copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets, offering to read to me, even though he knows that I would never refuse him. Clearing his throat, he begins:

> “ _Let me not to the marriage of true minds_  
>  _Admit impediments. Love is not love_  
>  _Which alters when it alteration finds,_  
>  _Or bends with the remover to remove:_  
>  _O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_  
>  _That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_  
>  _It is the star to every wandering bark,_  
>  _Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._  
>  _Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_  
>  _Within his bending sickle's compass come:_  
>  _Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_  
>  _But bears it out even to the edge of doom._  
>  _If this be error and upon me proved,_  
>  _I never writ, nor no man ever loved._ ”

I’m once more left speechless by the passion with which Tom delivers Shakespeare’s words, as if from the Bard’s mouth himself. Without hesitation, I tug at Tom’s shirt until I can smash my lips against his, pouring all the love I feel for him into that one kiss. When we at last separate, I’m no longer the only one who’s speechless.

“I think now would be a good time to go home, darling,” Tom whispers roughly. “You’re wearing entirely too much clothing, and I hear a bed calling our names.”

“Lead the way,” I say, accepting Tom’s hands as he pulls me to my feet.

From there, it’s a short taxi ride to our shared flat, with a mad dash to the front door that keeps being interrupted by one or the other of us pausing to connect our lips for a heated kiss. Finally, though, we make it inside, at which point Tom sweeps me off my feet and carries me up the stairs bridal-style. He tosses me gently on the bed and quickly sheds his shirt, while I follow suit. I unbuckle my jeans, and Tom tugs them off in one swift motion. I’m now in my bra and panties, while Tom still has his pants on.

“Off,” I growl, gesturing to the offending item of clothing in what I hope is an intimidating manner, but which, in actuality, probably more closely resembles an angry kitten: in other words, more cute than fear-inducing.

Tom nonetheless complies, and then he’s crawling on top of me, fusing our lips together. I’m in heaven. Our coupling is fierce and frantic — in Tom’s eagerness, I think my panties may even have gotten ripped — and over far too soon for my liking. Not that we were desperate, merely feeling a strong desire to be joined as one.

I snuggle into Tom’s side, settling my head on his shoulder and allowing my mind to wander as I doze, both half-asleep and half-awake. I’m roused what feels a short time later (but which, in reality, is several hours) by Tom, who says that he has something special planned for this evening, and I have to be ready to go soon if we’re going to make it to our dinner reservation on time.

Knowing Tom’s taste for fine dining when he wants to show me a good time, I dress in a simple but elegant evening dress and some strappy heels. I apply a minimum amount of make-up and brush out the curls in my hair. Only then do I deem myself ready to go.

I meet Tom downstairs, and he’s struck speechless by my descent. He only snaps out of it when I’m right in front of him. He takes my hand in his and brings it to his mouth, kissing my knuckles like the gentlemen of old did in classic Hollywood films. “You look beautiful,” he whispers, releasing my hand to grip my waist and pulling me close so that my breasts are pressed against his chest. Kissing me chastely on the lips, he lets me go, though reluctantly, I can tell.

Clasping hands, he leads me outside, where a cab is already waiting. “I thought about ordering a limo,” he explains as he opens the door for me. “But I didn’t want to draw attention to our evening out.”

“Smart planning,” I compliment him as he slides in after me and gives the driver our destination: one of the fancier restaurants in London that just happens to be within walking distance of the Globe Theater.

The cab comes to a stop and Tom offers me his hand to help me out. He opens the door of the restaurant for me, too, and places a hand at the small of my back as we follow our waiter to our reserved table, secluded in a quiet corner. He pulls out my chair for me, and only once I’m sitting does he take a seat, as well.

We’re regulars here, and so we’re quick to order, our food soon being set in front of us. We dig in, saying little in between bites but exchanging both heated and loving glances. It isn’t until we’re nearing the end of our main course and readying our already over-stuffed bellies for dessert that I notice something is _off_ about Tom. He’s jittery, drumming his fingers nervously on the tabletop and jiggling his leg so much so that the vibrations jostle my own leg.

“Tom, is something wrong, luv?” I ask, reaching for his hand — the drumming one — and stilling it with the weight of my own hand.

“I don’t know,” he says, surprising me. “It all depends on you.”

“What depends on me?” I ask dumbly, slow to catch on to Tom’s meaning.

“On how you answer a question,” he replies.

“What question?” I ask, hardly daring to believe my eyes when Tom gets up from his seat and drops to one knee at my side. He pulls out a small box from his inner pocket and opens it to revealing a dazzling diamond ring.

“Darling, I love you so much,” he says. “I know this might seem too soon, considering we’ve only been together for less than a year. But I can’t imagine life without you. I know you’ve tried to hide your depression from me, but I love you for everything that makes you who you are, depression and all. And now that I’ve seen you at what you consider to be your worst, I want to be there for you, always. So, darling, will you marry me?”

I stare at him in shock for the space of a single heartbeat, before I’m throwing myself in his arms, tackling him to the floor and peppering kisses all over his face. “Yes,” I whisper over and over again. “Yes, I’ll marry you. God, Tom, I love you so much!”

He’s laughing, and there are tears on both of our faces, but I’m too overwhelmed to figure out whose tears are whose. He pulls back enough to slip the ring on my finger, and then we’re kissing again. When we eventually regain our composure — enough to sit at the table again and order dessert like civilized human beings — Tom insists that I sit on his lap. I’m not about to protest, and so I gladly acquiesce.

“So what are your plans for us after this?” I ask curiously, for surely Tom must have had some destination in mind.

“Well, I got us tickets to see _Cymbeline_ at the Globe Theater,” he says, eyes alight with excitement. “Unless, of course,” he hurries to add, “you’d rather go home and celebrate our engagement in more _intimate_ ways than public decency allows for. We can always go out another night.”

“No, Tom, I’d love to see _Cymbeline_ with you. I know it’s a favorite of yours, and of mine,” I assure him.

I’m rewarded with a kiss, and Tom returns to spoon-feeding me the slice of cake we’d ordered to share.

The play is perfect. I sneak glances at Tom out of the corner of my eye ever now and then, to find him mouthing along with the actors on stage. I smile to myself, a secretive smile that only Tom has ever been able to bring out of me, and return to watching the performance.

I also sneak glances at my newly adorned finger, Tom’s engagement ring needing no light to sparkle in the moonlit evening. I subtly pinch myself, checking to see if this is all just a dream. Tom catches me, though, and traps my hand in his to prevent me doing myself any more harm.

I raise our clasped hands to my mouth and kiss Tom’s knuckles, much as he did to me at the start of our evening. I then settle both our hands in my lap, holding on tight and only releasing Tom to clap along with the rest of the audience at the end, as the actors come out on stage to take their final bows.

We leave the theater in a happy-tired daze. The cab ride home is silent, Tom rubbing his thumb against the back of my hand. We shoot each other contented smiles, only being jolted back to the present by the cab halting outside of our flat. Tom pays the driver and escorts me up the stairs, gallantly unlocking the door before sweeping me up into his  
arms.

“I’m practicing,” he explains upon seeing my wide-eyed expression, “for when we’re married and I get to carry you across the threshold as my wife.”

Such a sweet and honest declaration deserves a kiss, which I willingly bestow. Tom carries me through, shutting and locking the door behind him, and continues on up the stairs with me still in his arms. He lays me gently down on the bed and goes to fetch my pajamas — an old t-shirt of his and sweatpants — before helping me to undress and then re-dress again. Although I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, I let him pamper and spoil me. It’s nice to be treated like a princess every once in a while.

After tucking me into bed, Tom quickly dons his own pjs before sliding under the covers next to me, his arms immediately wrapping around my waist and holding me close against his chest.

“Thank you for such a perfect weekend,” I whisper into the darkness, my confession easier to admit if I can’t see Tom, nor feel like I’m being judged (not that he ever would). “I know Friday had a less than auspicious start, but you’ve always had a knack for reminding me that I am important and that I matter. And while I’m sure my meltdown scared you — I know that you don’t like to see or even imagine me in any kind of pain — I want to thank you for proposing to me anyway. It was the perfect way of lifting my spirits. I never dreamed I could be this happy.”

I feel Tom’s arms tighten around me, as though he would take on all my pain for himself if he could, but he offers no other protest than that. He knows that I have to get this off my chest if we’re to have any kind of a future together. Yet while he knew of my depression beforehand, and has now seen the results for himself, a person with as positive an outlook on life as Tom still finds it difficult to comprehend that someone can be as unhappy as I have been, to the point where I once considered taking my own life.

Now that I have him, though, I have every reason in the world to live. He’s not going to be rid of me so easily. And I will spend the rest of our days together reassuring him of this fact. “I will never leave you,” I whisper, lacing our fingers together and squeezing once, before relaxing my body and preparing for sleep to take me.

“And I will never let you go,” I hear Tom whisper. “Where you go, I will follow.”

Although his promise might be chilling in any other context, his words calm me, to the point where consciousness fades, the land of dreams beckoning. There, I see what might be visions of the future: me in a fluffy white gown, walking down an aisle at the end of which Tom waits; us dancing together around a ballroom that might be right out of a fairytale; Tom on his knees, his hands at my waist as he kisses my protruding belly; a baby wrapped in a soft blanket, whose weight is supported by both mine and Tom’s arms.

My dreams are happy, and as I sleep, a contented smile plays across my face. I am at peace.


End file.
